


Stars over Brooklyn

by LizzyGal



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bearded Steve Rogers, Cockwarming, Come as Lube, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hints of Sugardaddy, Judge Steve Rogers, Morally Questionable Steve Rogers, Older Man/Younger Woman, Oral Sex, Oreos, Possessive Steve Rogers, Post-Break Up, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Dynamics, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, SugarDaddy if you squint, Tattoos, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyGal/pseuds/LizzyGal
Summary: When Judge Steven Rogers finds out his secretary, whom he's been having a steamy relationship with, quit and broke up with him, he seeks to find out why.You hadn't wanted to break up with Steve...but you had no other choice.When Judge Rogers finds out the truth, he finds himself propositioning you. Being a Rogers and former war hero and Army Captain, Steve's not used to giving up without a fight.:::Content warning for loss of family and car accident.:::
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 186
Collections: Explicit Stories





	Stars over Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donutloverxo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutloverxo/gifts).



> This dear Donutloverxo, was inspired by you and your wonderfully soft romantic heart. I don't know if I'll ever write something soft and romantic, but, this is just for you. I hope you enjoy all the easter-eggs too. <3

Steve Grant Rogers had never, in his entire life, been as pissed off as he was in that very second. 

It had been a pretty exciting life too.

In a life that included three combat deployments to Afghanistan and Iraq, several wives, law school, a few engagements that never amounted to much, time as a district attorney and now, finding himself a criminal court judge before the big four-zero.

In fact, pissed off did not even begin to cover it.

Angry.

Irate.

Enraged. 

Infuriated.

All good words. None fit quite right. For god’s sake, as his close friend and Mayor of New York City, Sam told him over lunch, Steve had been shot three times and hadn’t once been this upset any of those times. Twice in Afghanistan and once in Iraq. Unfortunately, Sam was right.

None of those terms could seem to convey the feelings that simmered deep within him. Rolling beneath the surface, in a hot steaming swirl of fury at the utter deception you’d spoon fed him. As he flipped through the thick envelope his private investigator had just tossed across his desk, his ire only grew, rose, built.

It wasn’t bad enough that you had lied.

Sure, that was bad, but this…this collection of a weeks worth of work from Natasha, well, it was just too much.

Why couldn’t you have just found someone else?

Why couldn’t you have been cheating?

Why couldn’t your lies be the unforgivable kind? Lies he could vanquish from his mind with a weekend spent drinking and screwing a steady string of women, all to get you out of his system?

But no.

Natasha had to bring him this.

He still had the note you’d left on his bed, from when he’d come home almost two weeks ago. All the few things you kept at his place were gone.

_Sorry to do it this way. It’s not going to work out. Law school just isn’t for me. Be good and you’ll be on the supreme court before you know it. XOXO_

If only it had been that simple.

Bucky had told him having an inappropriate relationship with his secretary was a horrible idea. And as usual, Buck was right. That chestnut-haired little shit.

“So you had no clue about any of that?”

Face scrunching up, Steve said nothing about her boots up on the end of his desk. Too busy flipping through notes Natasha had made from her days following you, digging through your past, running credit checks and going through your trash.

“Obviously not if I called you,” was his response.

Judge Rogers had been irritable since his secretary had quit and the steady rotating door of replacements began. Linda. Shauna. Shawn. DeAndre. Juanita. Kiki. Someone named Clint was supposed to show up three days ago. He had yet to arrive. Steve on the other hand was fine with keeping his own calendar for the moment. He was fine with your desk being empty. It felt wrong to have someone new out there, in the front office that was the buffer between his chambers and the court house. For three years you’d been out there and now, all of the sudden, you were gone.

Of everything he’d concocted in his head, nothing came close to this, nothing could have even come close.

His anger only grew.

Behind a desk where he’d made decisions that had changed lives, Steve flipped through pictures that he’d seen on the news and pictures he hadn’t, his utter fury building with you.

How could you do this to him? 

Why would you do this to him?

When he’d found that note he’d been dazed, stunned. The courthouse had given him a replacement and the days that followed he’d tried calling you, emailing, texting but no luck. He’d even gone over to your apartment and when he went there, it was a mess. The bedroom and bath were a whirlwind of clothes, shoes and hastily packed cosmetics.

Of course his mind went to the place where it always went.

Like many Rogers before him, Steve had a handful of ex-wives and angry ex-girlfriends. He half expected to get a call from some lawyer, making some wild accusation at him. He’d done more than enough outrageous things around you in the past year to provide you with plenty of blackmail material. Maybe he was a bit demanding, possessive, or even borderline overbearing. You’d never minded. Hell, you had no problem calling him out on his shit, telling him exactly what he was doing to irritate you and then how he could not in the future. Maybe you’d finally had enough like all the others?

Up until he saw you on the news, he half expected to hear from a lawyer about a restraining order. That last time the two of you were together he brought up, once more, wanting to move in together and you’d laughed. He grew annoyed and you’d told him he was not relationship compatible. You’d told him you could either spend all day or all night with him. Not both.

You’d gotten under his skin.

Steve found he enjoyed talking with you during the day, discussing case law and rulings, he’d even written the letters that got you into law school. Outside of the courthouse, he texted you more than was appropriate for a pair in your respective positions and the sex, well, the sex. When the sex began, it was done and over for him.  
How you could just drop off the face of the fucking earth after two years together was beyond his ability to comprehend. And he was a judge, it was his job to comprehend a significant amount of bullshit.

Surrounded by shelves of legal books, walls full of diplomas and certificates and photos as if proving the blood in his veins was dynastical. The Rogers family had spawned politicians, diplomats, generals, judges, doctors, philanthropists and even a priest. His sister always told him when he found the right one, that absolute perfect match, it would knock him to his knees.

Twice you’d done that to him since you’d left. 

Once, when he found your note. He’d dropped onto his bed and lost his breath.

Again, when he saw you on the TV with your siblings, outside of St Patrick’s Cathedral. Where his younger brother was the damn priest burying your dead parents and brother and grandfather. Or, like New York Society and the media had been reporting all week, a drunk driver unfortunately had broadsided a SUV holding the Fury family. Ambassador Nick and his househusband Phil, Phil’s son Pietro had been killed. While his daughter Wanda had suffered a broken leg. You’d been at the scene too, watching your family get cut out of the mangled wreck.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough. Nick’s father, Zuri, had suffered a heart attack upon getting the news, passing away on the way to the hospital. Zuri, famed Nobel Laureate and the twins, Olympic gold medalists from last year’s winter games.

Upon hearing about the accident, Steve had been stunned like the rest of the city, state, country, world even.

Flags would be at half-mast for weeks in the city, possibly all month.

Steve still couldn’t believe it.

His mother was on his ass to settle down and get married. Practically throwing eligible, well-bred virginal daughters of Manhattan’s Upper Elite at him, while he’d been sneaking around with someone from an equally distinguished family all these years. And yet, nothing, not a peep or hint or anything from you.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

He wouldn’t have looked at you any differently. He wouldn’t have treated you any different. If anything, he could have told his mother, to get her off his case, so he could have more time with you.

Seeing you, on the news that morning before he was about to go into court, it sent him to his knees.

You looked absolutely destroyed.

You and your sister Shuri clung to one another, as your younger brothers Peter and Harvey helped Wanda into the cathedral, on her crutches. Now you were the eldest surviving member of the Fury family.

His mother had been at the funeral. She told him later that night, when you’d walked up to the caskets of your parents, to say your final goodbye, you’d collapsed on the cold marble floor of St Patrick’s. He’d been in court denying bail to the driver, who’d plowed into your family, while you’d been weeping inconsolably in his brother’s robed arms, amid a cathedral full of people.

He should have been there with you.

Every day that passed was like another nail in his coffin.

You didn’t answer his calls. You didn’t reply to his texts. You were reading them, he could see, but you weren’t replying. He would have sent flowers, visited, made sure you were ok, but he had no idea where you were and it just made him madder with every passing second.

He was having trouble getting through each day without hearing from you, speaking to you, touching you, eating with you. And now, knowing that you were suffering, in pain, grieving…he hadn’t been home in days. Steve was sleeping on his office couch, because that was where you’d sit when you helped him go through the legal books that lined his floor to ceiling shelves. It’d been the last place the two of you had shared a meal and was the last place the two of you had sex.

He needed to speak with you again.

He had to see you again.

Seeing your grief-stricken face on the news, plastered on newspapers and magazines in the following week, just drove that point deeper into what was left of his soul. Which was weird. He was not looking for wife number five. He hadn’t been on a second date in years. He was done. He knew how easy it was for him to fall in those toxic patterns of behavior, the needing to know and control things. Marriage was not good for him. A carefully constructed life was what he needed. Rigidity and routine, that was what he needed and you seemed to get it. Structure. Purpose. Boundaries.

He did what he enjoyed. He loved his apartment. He had great friends and was deeply connected to his family and up until recently, he had a girlfriend. It was absurd. He was a grown man, a judge, a war hero, a _Rogers_ and he was carrying on this inappropriate relationship with his secretary, when he should have known better. He of all people.

Which seemed to be a common theme in his life.

Not so shocking now though, considering what he’d found out.

He should have known though.

He’d asked you once about your surname. 

Coulson.

You’d laughed and told him no relation.

Now he knew better.

“They’re planning on moving out of state next month,” Natasha informed him, folding her hands over her chest and watching him with interest. She’d worked for his family extensively. Had known Steve Rogers for years.

Blue eyes looked up at her from across that large expanse of desk.

Still in his black robe with tie and collar visible, even though court was out for the day. Natasha figured he’d been sleeping over on the couch, too small to comfortably fit him, again. A pillow and folded up quilt underneath it giving him away.

“To a lawless and dangerous land…full of restless natives and dangerous wildlife…unnatural weather and drugs and a population teeming with unparalleled hostility towards all forms of law and order and reason…you’d probably do pretty well there…”

A concerned expression came over him as he turned his attention back to all the information she’d gathered. Since she didn’t want to wait for him to dig through, and she had a soft spot for the judge, since Natasha was ex-wife number three. “Florida, Steve. They’re going to Florida. Why do you wanna know so bad? You remember what happened the last time I went to Florida? Right? I got bit by an alligator at the airport. Didn’t even make it out into that horrific humidity…right there in the airport.”

Indeed he remembered Bitegate.

Oddly, Steve found himself getting along better with Natasha now, as opposed to when they were married, which Natasha would completely agree with. Happily married elsewhere now, she’d loved dating and being friends with the eldest Rogers son. Marriage was another thing entirely. She suspected that marriage was something that wasn’t his thing. 

Natasha didn’t know what his exact thing was but…she needed more.

“Why on earth would they move to Florida?”

Crossing one leg over the other, she rocked her chair backwards. “It’s expensive to live in the city. Without the two dads here to keep everything together, hard choices have to be made. They had to decide if they wanted to keep up living how they were, with the three younger kids going to their math and science based boarding school in Seattle, or if they wanted to stay together in one home. Insurance settlements will only last so long and only the eldest is eligible to draw from her trust fund. Between tuitions for the three youngest and then the training for the figure skater, if she gets back on skates or college. Plus property taxes in Brooklyn and then additional education for the three younger who are all going to science based private schools…” 

Steve was shocked.

Natasha shrugged, “So I tapped their phones. I thought it’d be way more interesting. A criminal case or something. Instead they were just sad and depressing.” Nat laced her fingers together and shrugged, resting the back of her head in her hands. “The eldest Fury dropped out of law school. She’s been liquidating stocks and investments. It’s cheaper down there. There’s a private school in Miami that the three child geniuses are being wooed by, plus, there’re plenty of places for the Olympian to train. Do you have any idea how much it costs to be an athlete at that level? When the dads were alive, she had endorsements. But…I doubt they’ll be willing to do that now that there’s going to eventually be a high-profile trial. If I were her, I’d want to get what was left of my family the hell away from here too.”

In his hands, would be hours and hours, worth of reading.

“Where’s she right now?” 

Curious, the private investigator cocked her head to the side and made herself even more comfortable in her former husband’s office chair. “At the family brownstone in Brooklyn. There’re too many stairs for sister with the broken leg. The siblings are with friends of the family, the Starks, up here where there are elevators. She’s leaving in the morning for Florida to check out homes and that school. So they’re hanging back.”

When Steve sighed, she observed closely.

“What are you thinking Rogers? She’s got baggage. You hate baggage. You don’t want kids. Remember?” 

And that had been just one of the many reasons why their marriage had failed.

He’d been so unyielding, stubborn, unreasonable.

Possessive and demanding.

It was his way, his way and his way until she couldn’t deal with it anymore and bounced.

Steve was, what Natasha referred to as, an old-time personality. Much like the great big old ones. Churchill. Roosevelt. De Gaulle. Great minds who accomplished huge things but didn’t always get along with everyone.

To be honest, Steve didn’t know just what he was thinking yet. He’d think of something though. Thinking of daily life without you was unbearable. But then again, so was the thought of change and Florida.

_**All the way over in Brooklyn…a few hours later…** _

You’d decided that you needed a break from going through the bedroom belonging to your fathers. 

A break from going through their stuff, boxing it and sorting it, seeing evidence of two lives that were gone now, no longer here, just gone. Which was how you wound up on the couch, feeling particularly snackish and watching something on Disney+ that your brothers had on. Normally you weren’t one for TV. Normally you were too busy. 

However…you couldn’t look away. 

It took your mind off things. 

Sure, your life had absolutely, totally and completely imploded in on itself, to the point even you didn’t recognize a thing, but, you were transfixed. There was a baby Yoda on the screen and a dude wearing space armor that was shooting up aliens, and that was kinda doing it for you.

Escapism. That was totally what you were calling the helmet wearing space thot. 

Unable to bring yourself to eat any of either dad’s left-overs in the fridge, still, or toss them, because by now they just needed to go. You munched on double stuffed mint 

Oreo’s and wondered if Mando kept the helmet on all the time? Like, all the time?

Munch. Munch.

You would have loved some chocolate milk.

However, you couldn’t bring yourself to drink your other dad’s chocolate milk. You just couldn’t. You’d bought it the other day for him without realizing until you’d got home, put away the groceries, and found yourself staring at it, when Shuri asked you why you’d bought it.

Munch. Munch.

Cute cooing from the TV.

Shuri was right. Baby Yoda was adorable and deserved all the memes.

A knocking from the front door cut through your television viewing and snacking, making you ponder if you had the strength to answer the door, yet again, and deal with whomever was on the other side.

It was your first night to yourself since the accident. Come morning, you’d be going to Miami to root around, see if it was a good place for all of you to start your new lives over again. Did you really want to answer the door? Could you deal with more friends, associates, coworkers and well-wishers coming to pay their condolences and check in on you?

No.

But it could have been one of the detectives. It could have been one of the lawyers. Hell, it could have been the priest or your accountant.

Plus, it was nine something.

Late enough that it wasn’t going to be anyone who didn’t have a good reason for dropping by, leading you to pause Mando, not wanting to miss a minute of that and grabbing your package of Oreos. Dare you grow famished on the way to the front door.

Across the hardwood floors Phil had picked out himself you padded.

In no hurry. 

A million emotions, thoughts, feelings, everything weighing down on you.

Unlike Wanda, you hadn’t suffered any broken bones. You wished you had been in her place. You wished you’d broken your leg instead of her, considering how much rehabilitation she’d need to be able to walk, forget skate, in the future. Her coaches and rehabilitation doctors and therapists were already planning her next year. For a nominal fee of course. You’d be fitting the bill for her coaches to move to Florida too. As if they’d stay and start over with a new skater. But whatever. Once you all got to Florida and settled in, things would get better. You’d save a ton of money living down there. You’d all be together as a family. It’d be ok. You’d make sure it was ok.

Oh the guilt.

You’d switched places with her at the last minute. You’d take the subway back to Brooklyn, so you could pick up a few things at the pharmacy, while Dads and the twins took grandpa home in the car.

Pain would have been fine.

Pain you could deal with instead of this guilt and misery and weight on your shoulders.

After all, you were still alive.

So you were dreaming about it. And maybe you were waking up screaming like a banshee. Another good reason for you to have a few nights to yourself, let your siblings get some peace and quiet. You’d been right there when it happened, right up on the curb and had seen everything. Someone had held you back from going to the car. You’d fought and screamed until they could no longer hold you. Then you’d checked on your family in the heap of broken glass and twisted metal, uncaring about yourself. Watching over Pietro’s dead body and Wanda’s still form for hours, unable to move. Unable to leave until everyone of them had been removed from the wreckage. Hearing the broken horn blaring, people screaming…talking, sounds of the SUV hissing and pinging. All you could smell was blood and smoke and bent metal. For hours you’d been trapped in that hell…so yeah, it wasn’t too odd you’d be dreaming about it. 

Upon strolling past a full-sized antique mirror nearish to the front entranceway, you paused, took in your reflection.

Still wearing the linen loose drawstring pants from earlier and a white silk button up. Your hair was wrapped up in a soft white silk star covered wrap. Now you were rocking a short pixie cut. Grief made people do weird things. You now understood why people said never make any big choices after a tragedy. You’d broken up with the love of your life, gotten a shockingly short haircut and were planning to move thousands of miles away after quitting law school - your lifelong dream - in the space of a week. So yeah, you understood why _they_ said that. Of all your siblings, Peter and Harvey included, you now had the shortest do. Your surviving brothers had yet to tease you about the do. But you knew it was coming and you could not wait for their eventual ribbing.

More knocking.

Not hard or angry knocking, just your standard sort of knock. Making you roll your eyes and check your makeup. It was entirely possible, that you were keeping your local Sephora afloat with the amount of product you were buying, in order to hide your dark circles and puffy red splotches.

All of which looked perfectly on pointe. Thus leading you to cross the space in the front foyer to answer the door. Muttering beneath your breath at the audacity of it all.  
Flipping the locks, twisting the doorknob, you pulled open the door and saw whom was on what was now your front stoop. 

And then you slammed front door shut. 

Looked upwards for some manner of divine guidance, inquiring to whomever was listening. “For fucks sake…what did I do? What did I do to deserve this? Right now? Really?”

Through the door, Steve greeted you. 

“Let me in or I’m going to cause a scene.”

Because he would too. Knowing Steven Grant Rogers, judge, former Army Captain and eldest son of Sarah Rogers, he totally would cause a scene that everyone on the block would hear.

And because he was practically American Royalty, he’d never get in trouble for it. Even if he wasn’t a judge.

A deep breath in through your nose and out through your clenched teeth was needed and upon doing so, you grabbed the door and once more, opened it. But with spirit the second time. Making sure that he knew you were not pleased with him interrupting your big night to yourself.

Like he owned it, Steve stepped into the old brick brownstone and you made sure to slam the door behind him, yet again, so there was no confusion. As you threw the locks, you didn’t wait for him to say anything. You knew why he was here. You’d hoped he would have just let things be as they were, a clean break, done, over, your lives very much now going in two very distinct different paths.

Your days of immersing yourself in the study of law, working with this man, sharing meals and days and long talks, exchanging ideas with this man, being intimate with this specimen of a man were done. Gone. Over. 

Through no fault of either of your own either. Which made it worse. Quite simply, it was the cards you’d been dealt. You weren’t about to drag him down on this sunk ship with you.

“What do you want Steve?”

He must have come from the courthouse. 

You noticed he still had on his black slacks and white shirt. Black tie. He wasn’t wearing his black judges robe. A huge plus. That would have been concerning. The man already looked a bit wrinkled, smelled a bit too much like cologne and clearly hadn’t been trimming his magnificent beard.

No longer cool, collected, practically suave. 

Steve turned and stood before you, towering over you because he was massive in size and it still didn’t intimidate you one bit.

Not much bothered you these days. Having to watch ones family get cut out of a vehicle really made one ponder things.

The look he gave you as he looked you over closely, pausing at your hair and the extra makeup on your face, meant to hide evidence of your grief. You’d seen that expression of incredulity many times in the courtroom, when you’d sat in the back rows, on cases he’d presided over.

Since you had no desire to explain why you wanted to get into law school on your own merit, or get the job at the courthouse on your own, hence the use of Phil’s name. 

You decided to go with the bigger elephant in the room. Oreo package crinkling in your hand. 

“My life isn’t the same anymore. Everything is different now. What do you want me to say?”

He was mad and hurt and you knew you’d done that to him.

Having the family lawyer leave that note on his desk had been cowardly. But, you couldn’t tell him. You tried. You thought about it more than once in the ER. When you’d been out in the waiting room, alone, sobbing, hysterical, amid a crowd of strangers, weeping at everything that had been ripped away in a matter of seconds.

Steve’s name floated up again and again.

“How about something better than that? We were together for two goddamn years. And I had to get that note and then find out the truth, on the news.”

His eyes were so blue they were practically black.

He was so mad at you. 

You couldn’t blame him. You weren’t thrilled with yourself either for the shitty way you’d handled it. However, you had bigger issues at hand to concern yourself with, issues that were eleven and twelve and sixteen and twenty. Not to forget the cops and lawyers. Your love life, your ambitions, your goals and dreams were a thing of the past.

And that was just the tip of the iceberg, that was your new life.

Peering down at the Oreos, you began to tap the package on the inside of your palm. “Thought about calling you that night. From the hospital…but I couldn’t. A couple times I came close. In the end I just…didn’t want you to feel like you had to march in and try to fix everything, or feel obligated. You know how you get…” A frustrated glare came from him in response to that and you knew you’d made the right choice in the end. “I had to know that I could do this myself, on my own, take care of my family.”

Standing there, in the front entrance area of your family home, hearing that, oh it hurt. It was like someone cranked the unpleasantness from an eight to a ten. 

Unfortunately, Steve knew exactly what you were talking about, on that one part about him and could even sympathize with that last bit.

It had ended three of his marriages, two engagements and countless relationships.

It was a small little issue with control.

Some of his formers had used such language as _possessive_ or _domineering_ , his personal favorite being _over the top like that crazy bitch in Fatal Attraction_. 

Funnily enough, all his formers had been happy enough to spend his money and use his name and get every advantage they could out of him before it ended.

And it wasn’t like he enjoyed being that rigid.

It’d been up to Steve to take care of his mother and siblings when his father would get violently drunk, see red, and take it out on all of them. It was up to Steve to be sure his siblings all had their lunches packed and uniforms were on right for school. Growing up, he made sure everyone got to and from school. He took care of his mother when she was unable due to the beatings. Until the day that Steve was just as tall as his father, stronger though.

Steve made sure his father would never again hurt his mother before he graduated high school.

So maybe Steve hadn’t entirely made it into adulthood totally unscathed. His siblings had though. They were all happy and well-adjusted and that was more than he could ask for. If he had to take that for them to have good lives, he’d do it again, he’d do it till the end of time.

Feeling jittery, restless, Steve began to rock on his feet.

Seeing the judge do that, you knew how he was feeling and you were going to need a drink. Especially if you were going to have this horrible conversation. Leading you to walk from the front foyer with Steve hot on your heels.

“But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here. I want to be in your life. You had no right to just cut me out like what we have is nothing.”

Past family pictures of vacations, posed portraits and quiet moments of a once complete happy family. 

Steve couldn’t help but look as you wound your way into the bowels of the brownstone.

Cozy. Homey. Warm.

Something his apartment and family home weren’t, never were.

Soft carpets were on warm hardwood floors. Walls were white and covered if not with pictures, then with art or mementos of travels. He ran tense fingers through his hair, following you into a kitchen that was both top of the line, and full of well used equipment, colors, plants and that warm welcoming feeling enveloped him.

It was you.

It was the house version of you.

“Steve you hate kids,” you threw over your shoulder.

And that wasn’t entirely true. 

He didn’t want kids. People assured him he’d change his mind, said it would be different with his own, all that bullshit.

Those people didn’t have to spend their childhood in his home, helping raise his siblings because his father was a belligerent abusive drunk and his mother was too terrified to get medical care and risk angering him further. His grown siblings could do what they wanted. But Steve wanted no part in furthering those genes. He wouldn’t dare risk it. 

He’d done his part raising kids when he was a kid. 

“You hate kids too,” he smarted right back, watching you go to the fridge, to collect a bottle of wine and can of blood orange sparkling water, one that you knew he preferred.

He wasn’t thirsty. Not yet.

Not willing to ask for his assistance and unable to reach the top shelves, you popped the cork out and grabbed a glass from the sink. Filling it only a couple inches, knowing just how Steve felt about booze and respecting it. Steve didn’t drink. Period. Periot. At all. Besides, the last thing you needed was a hangover. A hangover would complete your circle of misery just perfectly.

Stuffing the bottle of wine back in the fridge and tossing the Oreos in the freezer, you ground out, because he wasn’t wrong. “Yeah but…they’re not kids, they’re my brothers and sisters.”

And he of all people got it. Steve _got_ it, got it like no one else.

Slamming the freezer door shut, you felt him up behind you.

It made you jump.

You hadn’t been expecting it.

You really needed a drink.

Big powerful arms came around you to take your hands in his, swallowing them right up.

“I understand that. I of all people understand that. There is no one else here, in this entire city, that could understand that as much as me.” Steve got it. They weren’t kids.  
They were family. There was a huge distinction that he could understand down to a visceral level and he inched himself even closer to the back of you.

Before he could say another word, you turned. He did not move and you found yourself pressed against the front of him. One of your hands remaining in his as you shook your head. “No Steve. No. You said children are a deal breaker. It ended two of your marriages. Like you said, you changed more than your share of diapers…”

“You’re not listening to me. I don’t care. They’re not my kids. They’re your brothers and sisters and I will do whatever it takes, to be in your life. I will do whatever you ask, to keep you here in New York...”

Mention of leaving the Big Apple made you frown.

He was doing it again. He was losing his grip and getting clingy. The one thing that you’d put your foot down to in the past.

Boundaries. Your relationship had to have boundaries. Steve needed boundaries.

Steve didn’t care. 

His grip on your hand remained firm. Refusing to back down. “Yeah, I hired a private investigator. I wouldn’t have had to, if you would have answered my calls or texts. And you know what else, if you move to Florida, I’m going too. I refuse to live another day like this. I refuse to let you deal with all of this on your own. We spent every day together for two years…we love each other, that doesn’t just stop overnight.”

You tried to run fingers through your hair, but forgot about the scarf and then when you tried to pull your hand free of Steve’s he refused, which led you to grab the counter and sigh deeply, look around the kitchen. This was just not your night. It really wasn’t. “Steve we are not having this conversation. Even if I wanted to stay, which we all do, we can’t afford to live here. My Dads were planning of moving next year. It’s expensive enough here, but now I have college now to think about and if Wanda doesn’t recover, 

“I’ll be putting all four of them through college. It’s over Steve. My life is never going to be the same. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

It killed you.

It really did. 

It brought tears to your eyes just saying those words out loud, knowing that your life as an individual person was over and you were now a caretaker. Four people now relied on you. It wasn’t that simple anymore. Nothing was that simple anymore.

And the worst part was, you knew his life plan, how he felt about having a family of his own and everything else under the sun. Just like he knew everything about you. Your first year working in his office, you must have spent five hours a day, at minimum, just talking. 

Talking, talking, talking…

All that talking led Steve to go straight for the throat.

He could have argued or asked any number of questions. He’d been one hell of a prosecuting attorney and could cross examine anyone. Anyone. He’d encountered far more hostile witnesses in his day.

Letting go of your hand, he stepped back. “Ok then…tell me you don’t love me.”

It would have hurt less if he’d just slapped you.

Those words were not what he expected out of your mouth.

A pained look came over your face. “What?”

“Tell me you don’t love me.”

The way he said it. As if he didn’t know that those words ripped out whatever was left of your heart.

“No.”

Steve glanced back, saw there was a white tile covered island and placed both his hands on it. Leaning backwards in order to make himself comfortable in your parent’s home. 

No, your home now.

“So you do love me?”

He had on his lawyer face. He’d reverted back to that ruthless reptilian creature that could just eviscerate anyone in his way and you were so not here for it. This was hard enough without him being like this. Fleeting thoughts of straight up pimp-slapping this bearded fool came to you. Possibly even considered longer than was appropriate for a grown woman. Violence never solved anything. Wasn’t that the whole point of the courts? Where you used to work?

You didn’t step forward.

You wanted to be closer. You wanted to be held. You wanted comfort and assurances that everything was going to be ok.

You also were not about to reward him.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that, you sanctimonious prick. I will love you until the day that I die and you know it. I refuse to be the reason you give up everything you’ve worked for. I can’t afford to live here and refuse to be around Obadiah when he eventually gets out of jail, because we both know his lawyer is going to find some way to get him out. He’s going to do everything he can to ruin what’s left of my family before he even makes it to trial. I can’t do it and I’m not going to make what’s left of my family do it. He’ll just go after you too. Especially the second he finds out I used to be your secretary and you didn’t recuse yourself from his bond hearing.”

“I don’t care,” was his immediate response.

Your immediate response, to his response, was a roll of the eyes.

Although, on the other hand, it felt so good to get these things out. You missed talking to him so much. You missed the hours you’d spend together in his office. You missed the time you spent beneath him on his couch, spread over his desk and in his bed. Mornings eating in bed and walks in the park, afternoons on his patio and baths in his claw footed tub together.

He made you feel like the absolute perfect version of yourself, so seamlessly too.

You would never love anyone like you loved him ever again.

Another eyeroll came from you. “You don’t care.” Touching your hand delicately to your forehead. 

Wine forgotten.

This was the talk the two of you should have had and now, that it was all getting out, Steve wasn’t about to lose. No. He wasn’t going to risk it again. He’d move south to be with you if he had to. Beard and all.

“Well I’m not living without you either.” Steve informed you, in absolutely no uncertain terms. “You can either let me take care of you. Or we’re all going to fucking Florida because I’m not going to do it. I will take care of you and your family because you’re mine and by extension, so are they.”

Your eyebrows went up. It wasn’t like hearing those words from him didn’t do things to you, make you twist up and feel that proverbial dam break at the thought that you were no longer alone, he had come for you, he loved you and somehow the two of you slightly damaged people were going to, in some weird way, make it work.

New, terrified you, on the very precipice of continuous change that you’d never even asked for, or wanted, was ready to drop down on her knees. Old, determined, bitchy you, who’d wanted to be a lawyer her whole life and was just a year away from graduation, was appalled at Steve’s words. He was slipping again. He was doing it again.  
Blinking, your hand went on your hip. “Take care of me? What does that even mean Steve? I am not getting married right now and refuse to be the fifth Mrs Rogers, which resorts us to Sugardaddy and Sugarbaby territory.”

You thought he’d laugh, scoff.

You made a derisive face and your tone was far from impressed at the idea, even when the words came from your mouth.

“Call it whatever you want,” because at that point, Steve no longer cared. You were his and he wasn’t leaving until this was settled one way or the other. “I’ll pay for everything. I’ll get them in whatever schools they want to attend here in the city. I was going to recuse myself anyway from further Stane proceedings.”

Stunned, you stared, unable to even process what he was telling you.

“What good is any of my hard work, or any of my money, if I’m not happy? You make me happy. I make you happy. We love each other. You were there for me when I needed you. Let me be here for you now. Let me help you now, let me take care of you. It’s just money. I would give it all away and resign to follow you anywhere. You’re all I want. What good is any of that if we can’t be together?”

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know. You didn’t know. You didn’t know.

This was so surreal, like a dream.

A deep, shuddering, gasping, breathy sob shook you.

God was he saying all the right things. Great things. Terrifying things. You of all people knew that nothing was free, nothing came without a price tag.

Seeing you do that, well it brought Steve right back to when he saw the funeral on the news, when his mother told him about you collapsing in the cathedral to your knees. It sent Steve two steps closer to you. It boxed him in around you until he was stroking your face and promising that everything would be ok, that he was here now and he would take care of you.

And it was so wonderful.

He was so warm and strong and smelled like Steve, and it was comfort and acceptance and unconditional love, and you knew that taking this step with him would ensure that nothing would ever be the same with Steve ever again. However, your life was obliterated and never going to be the same anyway.

With Steve, you had an ally, a lover and unconditional a partner.

Steve wasn’t a friend of the family helping out. Steve wasn’t clergy or your assigned detective, or victims advocate. Steve was yours. Steve belonged to you and you alone. You’d think about it. You’d have to have a talk about it later. It was too much to take in all at once, take into your jumbled brain.

What you wanted from Steve could not be bought. 

What you wanted from Steve was Steve.

Standing up on your toes, you pressed your mouth to his softly. You tried to kiss him. You tried so hard. You desperately needed that from him. You needed him to touch you and hold you and kiss you and caress you as only he could.

Misunderstanding somehow, because that was what had to have happened, Steve pulled away and you nearly died a million deaths. 

“No. You don’t have to do that. I’m not asking for sex or anything in return. Please just let me take care of you, let me…”

Clearly _he_ misunderstood.

Your hand went up to cover his mouth, beard tickling the soft palm of your hand. “I need you to touch me. I need you to hold me right now. I need to feel something other than this absolute devastation. What I need from you right now, is to make me feel something else.”

Finally, he understood.

This was not you exchanging intimacy for security, giving him yourself in return for financial stability. Quite simply, it was you needing him more than you needed anything else in the world right then, there, that very second.

Dropping down to his knees, Steve knew what it was that you needed, knew what you needed to feel something else. Later he could talk to you about it. 

Later he could convince you. 

Later.

Kissing your thighs and abdomen on top of your soft pants, he unlaced them and tugged, gently pulled until they pooled around your bare-feet, in a soft tan puddle and he could place soft kisses on your knees. On the swell of your thighs, over all the spots that he knew by heart and had long ago memorized. Steadily working his way up to the apex of your thighs.

Later he’d make you understand, make you see reason.

First though, you’d asked him, no, begged him for this.

Curling two fingers up, Steve parted your most intimate place, spreading you apart so he could open you up, placing a soft kiss to your clit. Snaking his tongue out to stroke the round collection of nerves.

And then he had to stop.

You shook. Trembled really. Gasped, shattered, broke right then and there, not from a climax, simply from the contact, simply because it felt good. Because it didn’t hurt and you’d been so convinced, certain that it’d never happen again. So sure, you spent the time since you wrote that note stealing yourself to be strong for your siblings, brave and for a future alone.

Inching up closer to you, between your legs, till his knees touched the cabinets. Your lover penned you in, until your hands fell down on his broad shoulders. Fingers sinking into the fabric. His mouth was on you and it was over, done. You were done. His mouth was on you and that was it.

You didn’t have to be strong anymore. You didn’t have to have all the answers. You didn’t have to be the rock, the backbone anymore.

You could be a woman. You could just be Steve’s girlfriend. You could just be and hand it over to him, for the time being.

A soft noise came from you as his tongue curled up, slid through, explored. It felt like forever since he’d touched you and when he lifted up your leg, rested your thigh on his shoulder to open you up more for him, you let him. You’d let him do anything he wanted to your body.

Steve had been your first. And while you clearly had not been his first, or anywhere near that, he was yours. He was yours. Every last bit of him belonged to you and when you’d wrote that note, deep down, you knew that there would never be anyone else. How could there ever be anyone who could ever compare? You’d waited longer than most young women your age to have sex. Not for any real purpose, other than you didn’t want any of the guys you dated touching you, and you really didn’t want to touch them. 

And then came Steve.

Intelligent. Funny. Loyal. 

He swirled his tongue around your clit, toying with it, stroking it, sucking in that way that made your toes curl, because shit, it made you see stars and feel lightheaded.

Of course, you’d waited to let just the right person be your first. You were stubborn enough to die a virgin, waiting for just the right person.

Commanding. Patient. Attentive.

Sinking further down, that wicked tongue of his sank into you, finding your wetness growing and spreading it around with his tongue, slipping through your soft lips and back up to your clit. Loud sucking noises followed. Wet sounds of your growing arousal. Your fingers sank into his hair, as his tongue pulled your clit back between his lips, mouth sinking over it, hot wet warmth enveloping the nerves, till you gasped, a real hoarse gasp. 

Curious. Devoted. Insistent.

All those things, he was all those things too and he was all yours and more. Steve was things that you shouldn’t have accepted, tolerated or even low-key liked.

Needy. Possessive. Intense.

Those things were just part of Steve, made up the complexity that was Steve.

Now, Steve took an almost primal pleasure in knowing that you were his. Your pussy was his. Your body and heart and mind, soul too, all of it was his. But especially that most intimate and untouched place that rested between your thighs. He was the first and only person who was ever going to be in your body. He knew what you liked, he knew what sounds you made and he knew what made you scream.

Swearing out his name, your hand gripped into his hair.

Just how he liked.

Pausing only but for a second, Steve looked up at you from the valley between your thighs. Cerulean eyes waiting till yours opened, before doing another thing to you.

“You ok?”

He could see it in your own expression. Raw. Overwhelming. Desperately and powerfully needing and needing and needing. Eyes wet with unshed tears, you combed your fingers through thick waves of dark blonde. Absolutely savoring the feel of his beard on your sensitive flesh, that wet furnace of his mouth over your most responsive place.

“Please…make me feel good…” 

Above him you shook and trembled.

If there was one person on earth who could read you, your body, it was Steve. Being your first had been a surprise and to be honest, Steve was not a big fan of virgins. Being your first had been more annoying than anything. Being, as his last fiancée had put it, _hung like a goddamn horse_ , meant those first few weeks after your relationship had gone from coworkers and friends, to sexual partners, was slow going, tedious, agonizing at times.

Now though, even now, your body took him like it was made for him. Steve rolled your clit around on his tongue, slipped a finger and then two through your folds. Spreading around the slippery proof of your growing arousal, penetrating your slit and then easing up into you. Punching a breath out of you.

Crying out, you came and he didn’t care.

Tightening around his fingers. Tightening your grip on his hair. Tightening your hips around his body. Tightening in your release around his fingers, as your walls wept around his digits, coating him. 

Never once pulling his fingers free, or lifting his mouth from your clit. 

Thinking about your pussy being his, belonging to you like you belonged to him, wasn’t enough. Whether in his bed, over his desk or here in this kitchen. It wasn’t enough. It didn’t satisfy that fire that blazed deep in his well-dressed, impeccably maintained, rigid and duty-bound chest. Unsure of whether it was because he’d found _the one._ Or if it was some kind of virgin kink, one he’d never tapped into before discovering you still had an intact hymen that fateful night three years ago, on the end of his desk.

All Steve knew was, he wasn’t complete unless he made you come enough that you were wet for the rest of the day. All Steve knew was, he wasn’t complete unless he knew that his cum was inside of you. 

It wasn’t a matter of belonging to you.

You owned him just as much as he owned you.

Letting your little nub pop from his mouth. Steve dipped lower to tongue some of your slippery cum covering his fingers and hand. Spread it around with his fingers. Feeling your soft moist folds on his mouth was heaven, hearing your soft pants and whispers of his name…bliss. 

For a bit he sucked on your lips. Drug his tongue around at leisure. Swirled your clit, stroked you with his thumb, rubbed all along that spot right up inside of you that could light up the world.

On your second climax, Steve pulled his fingers from you as you came, replacing them instead with his tongue. Either licking your slit, your wet arousal that only grew and seemed to be everywhere. Either sinking up to feel you as you came, so tense in his arms. His face and beard were wet. Your fingers were curled tightly in his hair and he was uncomfortably hard in his slacks. 

More though, he wanted more.

He wanted to hear you all night. He wanted to feel the softness of your wet and swollen folds, knowing that he’d done that, knowing that he made you feel that good and soon he would fill you with his cum. Simply because it had been days and you needed to be reminded of who owned you. You needed to know you couldn’t just run off with half of him, to god forsaken Florida, ignoring him, pretending like you could handle all of this on your own. As if he’d ever let that happen. No. Not when you could bring him to his knees from clear across town. 

“Is there a bedroom? Someplace more comfortable?” 

A bedroom?

Someplace more comfortable?

You could barely see straight and there was something magical and utterly delightful swirling around downstairs, as a direct result of him eating you out and he wanted to know if there was a bedroom?

For a moment, you considered the question. Blinking at him and finally were able to verbalize a sentiment.

Yes, there was.

Nodding, you pointed. “Yeah…I’ve been sleeping downstairs, in the guestroom. Just down the hall there.”

Like he wasn’t affected at all, he stood and kissed you. The hard feel of his erection pressed into your stomach. An indicator you wanted to feel, to know that he was as turned on and needy as you felt, as you wanted to just scream out. Even though you didn’t want to be that demanding overbearing person, _that_ woman, _that_ girlfriend.

Was it so bad to want this? Was it so bad to even consider it? To have another option? A chance at a happy life for you and your family and Steve? Nothing was that easy. Right? Nothing was that easy when either of you were involved.

***

And you showed Steve the way. Showed him through the home that Phil and Nick inherited when Phil’s dad died a few years ago. Otherwise the couple would never have been able to afford such a stunning Park Slope property, in overpriced Brooklyn, easily going for tens of millions. You yourself had been tempted to sell for that alone. It would be a nice nest egg for the future. Especially since you sure as hell couldn’t afford the property taxes to stay.

Steve could tell you’d been staying in the little guest room. 

Just big enough for a French canopy bed with dresser nearby in the same maple wood, a lilac chair in the corner of the room was piled with your clothes. Your makeup bag was spilled out across the dresser surface and your shoes were all over. Piles of organized papers were in a rainbow on the floor at the foot of the bed. As if you’d been going through them and on the nightstand, by a paper lantern lamp and old retro fan, was a book face down.

It was you, so you.

You hadn’t even made the bed which didn’t surprise Steve. Getting into the guest room was better. Getting away from communal spaces in the family home was better, or so it seemed. Closing the bedroom door gently, Steve turned and your hands were on him. 

He’d only just caught you, hopping up into his arms to grab his face, to kiss him, hooking your calves on his hips and slipping down as your desperate hands clung to his face, slipped into his hair. Hungrily you kissed him, bit that plump bottom lip and licked his beard that so desperately needed a trim.

Big hands grabbed your hips, pulled you up, allowed you to wrap your legs around his waist, let you better your position and kiss him like you wanted. Let your hands explore his face and hair and neck. Let you loosen the knot of his black tie, to eventually pull it free, tossing it aside.

Almost frantic for his affections, you kissed him. You inhaled him. Your fingers clung, your teeth nipped, your lips encouraged as your tongue explored. It was not so much a kiss as a conquering. One he allowed you.

Easily, Steve covered the space to the bed on those long legs.

Button after button quickly opened under those skilled fingers, until he pulled his shirt from his pants, shook out of it, exposing long sleeved flesh colored Under Armor. It stretched taut over a sculpted broad chest. In an attempt to aid him, you helped yank the offending white shirt from his wrists, flinging it down, twisting your tongue around his in a claiming.

Still, he was dressed, you were dressed.

Somehow, Steve yanked off the tight shirt that hid a torso and arms covered with ink. Tattoos linked together, swirled and curled over milky flesh. Names and images of family and friends, commemorating his service in the Army, his Roman Catholic faith and hints of his chosen profession in the court room. He’d never tell you, but, there were a few stars up on his chest that were because of you.

All of that was yours, all of those hidden tattoos belonged to you.

He was yours. Every last part of him was yours. The under shirt wound up on the floor. Running your fingers through dirty blonde hair, Steve climbed up onto the bed, dropping you. Allowing you to see all of the permanent art that had been marked into his chest, back and arms. 

Actively, you watched him kneel between your legs, in the mess of white sheets and pillows, unbuckle himself, unbutton and unzip. Sculpted long legs emerged from inky slacks that too, were shoved to his knees. Followed by matching boxer briefs. Unable to waste another second where he wasn’t in you.

Hidden perfectly beneath his suits was all that colorful ink. Meant only for your eyes. Only you were privy to this part of him. Only you saw him so exposed, as he knelt onto the mattress between your open thighs. You could not have opened them wider if you tried. Rough palms smoothed over your knees that no longer shook.

God he was so big.

You’d never think he could possibly fit inside of you if you hadn’t taken him and you could never again have sex with anyone else, never, no one would ever be able to compare to Steve.

Fisting himself with every bit closer he came, veiny, thick, fuck was he thick, the bulbous head at his tip was covered with pre-ejaculate and you could see his heavy balls sway between his thighs.

It was yours, all yours, you owned that dick. How the hell could you ever think you could live without it?

Kicking your thighs open wider, you made these needy little noises. Noises that were not at all representative of how strong of a modern woman you were and you could have cared less.

“Look at how fucking wet you are.”

Not that you needed to, you could feel how fucking wet you were and were fucking desperate for him to make you feel good. “Please…please…Steve, please…”

Almost against your will, your body bucked up against him as he began to run his tip through your wetness, collecting it, rubbing himself in it, preparing himself. Thankfully you were wet enough to take him and there was no need to bring up the unfortunate question of, if there was lube on hand.

Slowly, methodically, he swirled his head around your clit, nudged your entrance, slipping an inch into you with such a satisfying wet sound. 

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. Leave. Or leave a damn note for me.”

In your absolute mind-numbing need, you agreed, you nodded, hell you would have given up the nuclear codes for some penetration. Because now that he was there…taunting you with it, tormenting you, you realized just how goddamn much you needed it, needed him, needed to feel full.

And then he was pushing in.

Not fast, never fast, not with his size. But a slow and steady push into your body that sent you back into the mess of pillows, back arched, mouth open, thighs spreading as far wide as you could make them go. Steadily he took you, inch by inch, opening you up with his member, spearing you on him, taking you and every last perfect, squeezing, slimy inch of you, until he butted up against warm squishy resistance that was your cervix.

Beneath him you gasped, you breathed through it, your hips and pelvis made adjustments to take him. You could feel his sac rest against your ass. Fingers dug into your fleshy thighs, opening you further, leading you to shake your head, promising, “I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.”

You wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

You sincerely did not have the strength in you to do it again, twice, break up with him a second time and stay away for the good of you both. You’d tried. Oh how you’d tried. Tried so hard with such a good effort and you were so close. So so close. You were hours away from a fresh start. 

And Steve began to truly take you, pound you into the mattress and pillows with merciless blows from his hips, his pelvis. Hitting every last inch of you, each and every time, because he was so thick, he filled every last part of you. Each thrust was like a blow sending you back, pushing you up, till your palms pressed against the wall. Keeping you in place, taking the force each time. It was all you could do to wrap your ankles around his thighs and hold on, take it.

Filled to the brim you gasped and panted, looked over the broad expanse of his colorful shoulders, the movement of his hair. Each time your body coiled up with each stroke against your walls, in and out, over that rough patch of flesh inside of you, with each push of his cock back inside of you, running along your clit. Wet noises came from between the two of you. Soft slaps came against your ass from his sac.

Rough fingers yanked, pulled, tore at the buttons on your shirt, till a lacy bra cup came into view.

Mindless with need to be in your tight body, your copiously wet body, needing friction, needing completion that only you gave him, needing to feel your walls grip him. It was possible he ripped your shirt. It was and he couldn’t even think about caring. Yanking down on the cup of your bra. Till the flesh of your breast and nipple swelled out, caught up over your underwire. Steve sank his lips over the soft tissue, played with your nipple between his teeth, with his tongue. His beard both soft and abrasive on your delicate flesh. Leaving smears of your cum from before in the kitchen. Never once slowing in his reclaiming of you.

You had to know. You had to be reminded. You had to never ever do that again.

Almost angrily, he sucked a mark onto the flesh of your breast, wanting to see it long after you two were done.

God did he love your tits.

A hard swipe with the flat of his tongue over your nipple smeared more of your juices from earlier, killing him, making him fuck you even harder into the bed, if that was possible. Steve heard you scream his name. Steve heard the wooden bed frame creaking from the two of you, heard it smacking the wall.

Bang. _Creak._ Bang. _Creak._ Bang.

With a definite tear that time, he yanked your bra down further, exposing the swell of your other breast, shelving them both indecently with your lingerie. Presenting them to him for his enjoyment.

Another swipe from his tongue.

You were chanting his name.

Steve took your other nipple between his teeth and gave you a particularly hard, deep, powerful thrust.

You gaped, soundless at the impact in your cervix, the pain mingled with pleasure, breaking through the haze of your impending orgasm, making you nearly sob that you were close.

Each powering into your body from him rocked you, stimulated you, bounced your legs and jiggled your breasts, as he shoved you closer and closer and closer. Wetness slid from your joining, a Catholic medal hung from his neck and swung between you both, dirty gold hair grew messier each and every time.  
Heaven help you, you were so close, you could reach out and touch it.

All you could hear were Steve’s grunts, the wet sounds of your bodies slapping together paired with the loud screeching sounds of the bed. All you could smell was his cologne, sweat and yourself on his face, bedsheets too. 

All you felt when you came was hot, molten, shuddering that made your body tighten around him, pull your hands from the wall to grab his tattooed biceps. All you felt was pleasure that made your toes curl tight. All you felt was shuddering from within, clenching that you couldn’t begin to control around his thick member, sending your brain into a flood of deliciousness, silencing you, bringing the ocean to your ears. Making your pelvis rub up against him to further that completion, like some manner of teenager humping their hand for release.

All Steve felt was white hot static that burnt and set his synapses on fire. All he could do was power into you further. Sink even deeper into the clenching warmth that made him understand what it felt like to be compelled. All he felt was the tightening of every muscle in his body, tightening of his balls, tightening of his jaw as he dropped his head into your shoulder, fighting to get further in you. 

Distantly, somehow, in some way, a thought bubbled up from the primordial ooze that had claimed him.

He was bigger, heavier and had collapsed on top of you, emptying everything he had in him into you, or so it felt.

Somehow, in some way, his arms tightened around you, pulling you along with him to your sides. All while remaining deeply entrenched in you. Because he couldn’t leave. He would never leave this bed, this position, leave your body ever again. Both of your ankles remaining tightly snaked around his thighs was something of a delight. Tightly you continued to cling to him for a long time. It could have been ten minutes, twenty minutes or even an hour. Steve wasn’t keeping track.

You were something of a cuddler, preferring to be the little spoon.

Had you not been breathing so deeply, softly touching the patterns tattooed onto his taut abdomen, resting your forehead against his damp chest, he would have assumed you’d fallen asleep.

In the time that passed, both your hearts slowly calmed. In that time, both of you eventually began to breathe normally and though he had softened within you, he was simply too large to pop out. Not in the snug embrace you two remained in. Barely any space between you both. You brushing your fingers over a tattooed pair of combat boots that had dog-tags hanging out of one. Beside that was roughened scarred skin, a small round scar and more ink, swirls of snow with trees, a mountain range from far far away and a full moon. More clouds raining down snow over those mountains leading down ever closer to his pelvis.

“I love you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t look up or stop touching his flesh. Comforted, content, ok for the first time in days and days. 

You didn’t have to move or look up.

Instead you placed a soft kiss to his chest, just beneath his flushed nipple. Kissing the delicate hand of the blessed virgin, who was tattooed right over his heart. She was as beautiful as any painting you saw in museums or art you saw at church. Behind her, surrounding her, were stars, a bunch of stars that were so beautifully done you could and had lost yourself in tracing your fingers over them. Your eyes always finding the somewhat newer addition to his increasing collection. You loved stars. You had a thing for stars. Now the stars were where your fathers and brother and grandfather were. “I love you too Steve.”

Pulling off the white silk scarf, from where it had almost totally slid off your head. He began to play with your hair. Seeing what you’d done and finding he didn’t hate it. Hair would always grow back. Plus now, Steve could see the collection of earrings you had decorating your ears. Usually covered by your hair, which was always cut and styled professionally so, conservatively. Hiding little gold stars that twinkled up at him. A couple star studs, a small hoop with one on it, a little crystal or diamond in the shape of a star and then a small cuff on the shell of your ear, little stars and stones decorating it, twinkling up at him.

“Are you going to let me take care of you? Or do I have to move to Florida?” 

As his quiet words settled around you, you could feel him reach for soft blankets and pull them over you both. Stretch out to grab pillows, stuffing them in comfortable places, never once pulling away. Jostling yes, but remaining deeply within you. Movement letting you feel the cooling of sweat on your bodies, making you curl up even closer to him beneath the blankets. Shifting that let you know that the two of you had made a slimy mess. Where you were joined was slippery and gooey and it was everywhere on you, on him and the sheets. Of which you’d deal with later. 

“What do you mean when you say that?”

Since ‘moving to Florida’ was pretty self-explanatory, Steve took you to mean the first part of his question. 

Brushing his lips over the top of your head, beard brushing through your shorter locks, he rained down a few kisses and continued to play with your shorter style. 

“Let me help get the boys and Shuri in school here. My money manager will call your accountant and everything will be taken care of. We can figure out the rest in time…when things calm down.” Because Brooklyn was way too far away to commute for the rest of his life. With Florida practically gone from the discussion, Steve could relax as much as he was capable. Which wasn’t much. Asking you to move out of your family home was too much too soon. Even he knew this.

Getting the boys and Shuri into a suitable private school, in Manhattan, was critical in setting up a future move, possibly next year. You’d take time off, of course, Steve already had it planned out. Soon enough you could go back to law school. 

He’d already called the dean of that school. Explained what had happened. It’d been unfortunate when you’d called to withdraw from the program, as Nick and Phil Fury’s daughter. 

When he called the dean at home, on his way to Brooklyn hours ago, as Judge Rogers, it was equally tragic. But of course you could take a leave of absence and return, when you were ready. Absolutely you could pick up in your studies in a new semester. Steve hadn’t expected any other answer. You could return to the courthouse too. Steve would make sure of that when the day arrived. 

A thought came to mind.

A horrifying thought that just came out in with pressing concern. “Do I have to call you daddy?”

“Oh god no.”

Which was a relief.

Sir was one thing. 

Judge Rogers another entirely. 

Hell, Captain Rogers was always fun to pull out on the odd occasion.

But Daddy? 

No.


End file.
